


don't break the spell (I don't want to say goodbye)

by pallorsomnium



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Violence, Temporary Character Death (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallorsomnium/pseuds/pallorsomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After avenging his parents, Erik wanders, following whichever path down the road calls to him. He isn't happy, but he's content, traveling and finding work as a blacksmith. Then he finds a pocketwatch in a flower field, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't break the spell (I don't want to say goodbye)

**Author's Note:**

> For X-men Tales, inspired by Kaori Yuki's retelling of "Sleeping Beauty" in her manga _Ludwig Kakumei_.
> 
> This fic took a village to finish (I'm never going to attempt this style of writing again argh). Thank you so so much to [clocks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/clocks), [unforgotten](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten), and [afrocurl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl) for beta'ing and helping me get this fic into tip-top-shape. And a huge thank you also to everyone on tumblr, twitter, chat (the whole lot, really) who cheered me on and helped get this fic into suitable shape to be viewed. 
> 
> For those interested, I have also posted a playlist and cover art to go along with this fic. They can be found [here](http://pallorsomnium.livejournal.com/16912.html)

“We’re sorry, Erik, but you must leave,” the Elder tells him.

He looks around, at all the townspeople before him. These men and women have watched him grow from boy to man, and he has seen these children take their first steps. Those old enough to understand look at him in sadness, but he can see the fear too.

They do not want a killer here, not even one who has killed a murderer.

He understands, does not feel angered by this--after all, the one at fault, he has already killed--so he does not argue, instead inclines his head and goes to collect his possessions, the few things salvaged from the flames set by Schmidt and the few personal tools of his trade.

When he departs, the townspeople are watching from doorsteps and windows; there are no farewells for one who is banished. He takes one last look at the town he’s spent his whole life in, then turns his back, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

He wanders, following whichever path down the road calls to him. He looks for work, but the villages where he stops for the night are too small to need a blacksmith, and the towns he comes across already have one or two and have no need for another. He has no choice but to help where an extra smith is needed, just for a few days, before setting off again down the road.

 

* * *

 

Erik has a secret--a blessing and a curse. Metal speaks to him, and he can sense, move, and shape it without a touch. A terrifying power to have, when one is a child and out of control; the perfect one, when one is a blacksmith and practiced.

But Schmidt had learned of his secret, and that is why his parents are dead. He would hate his power, would have never used it again, if his parents had not loved it so.

 

* * *

 

Days pass into weeks, pass into months, and it seems like all of a sudden, two years have passed. Erik is not happy, but he is content. He makes enough money to survive; he does what jobs he wants, goes where he wishes; he sees landscapes he could never have imagined: mountains of ice as blue as the sky and river gorges deeper than the eye can see; wheat fields like gold spread under the sun and lush forests untouched by human hands. He has found he enjoys sleeping out under the stars.

And yet, he feels like he is searching for something, forever walking towards something just out of reach.

 

* * *

 

One day, resting in a field replete with flowers, it is with his power that he finds something round, with a long chain, buried beneath the soil. The metal sings like gold, and curious, Erik digs his fingers into the ground.

He unearths a pocketwatch, wipes it clean.

The clock has long stopped working, but its craftsmanship is exquisite, delicate engravings like lace swirling across gold. Inside, there is lettering, thin and spidery: _B.X._ Erik wonders what nobleman would be so foolish as to discard it.

The pocketwatch is merely a bauble now, but he takes it with him, slipping it into his pocket, and gathers up his bags to continue on down the road.

 

* * *

 

The next town he comes across is not far from the flower field. He is in luck; the blacksmith is recovering from illness, resigned to supervising his apprentices, who are unable to complete a single job without assistance. After a quick demonstration of his skills, the smith hires Erik with barely restrained relief, and Erik is guaranteed at least two week’s worth of work. He begins immediately.

 

* * *

 

There is a silhouette of a great castle lurking in the distance, just within sight from the edge of town; Erik notices it as he crosses town to the inn the blacksmith has suggested.

He cannot see any activity from the castle, at least not from where he stands, but he also does not recall any word of a lord ruling over these parts. He wonders if the castle is abandoned, stores the thought away for later.

 

* * *

 

“It’s Sleeping Beauty’s castle, sir,” the serving lad says.

And Erik listens, dubious, as the lad sits down and tells him of Sleeping Beauty, of a princess hidden away, waiting for a prince to wake her from eternal sleep. There is a curse, he says, for all those who seek her do not return. The town blames it on the faery, who lives alone in a house by the castle’s woods.

Erik shakes his head, dismisses the lad.

There are no such things as faeries.

 

* * *

 

He has not thought much of the pocketwatch since he found it, though he has remembered it, has felt the pure hum of gold and the small weight in his pocket. He takes it out when he undresses for the night, sets it down on the bedside table.

When he climbs into bed, he can see the watch shining in the moonlight. He thinks of fixing it, making it serve its purpose once again.

But he has work to do in the morning, so he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come.

 

* * *

 

Erik stands in a flower field when he opens his eyes. He blinks, the blue sky blinding. He knows this field; this is where he found the pocketwatch.

But his dreams are never calm and peaceful, but filled with blood and fire. He wonders why he is now here and turns, searching for whatever is to come.

And there. There is someone in the near distance, sitting among the flowers. Erik sees books strewn open in a circle, sees brown floppy hair, and clothes too fine for any commoner.

He moves closer, and the noble looks up at the sound of his footsteps.

The sight of him is like a blow to the stomach, air rushing out of Erik’s lungs.

Eyes bluer than the sky, lips red as poppies, pale skin like moonlight, features beautiful and almost feminine, if not for a strong jaw and distinctive nose. A man just entering adulthood and yet giving a sense of agelessness.

Erik has never seen a man-- _a person_ \--so perfect.

“Who are you? How did you get here?” the man says, scrambling to his feet.

Erik frowns, then says, “I fell asleep and woke up here. This is a dream, so I should be the one asking who you are.”

“No, you are quite certainly in mine, and I want to know how you got here.”

“I fell asleep. That’s all I know.”

The man eyes him, suspicious, before saying, “My name is Charles. Who are you?”

“...Erik.”

“Lovely to meet you, I suppose,” he says drily. “...I don’t get many visitors.”

“I’m not surprised. There’s only this field,” Erik remarks, looking into the distance. White flowers and blue sky stretch as far as he could see.

Charles scowls and says, “Because I want it to be just like this. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Other than the obvious, why not?”

“ _People_ don’t bother me here. I can be alone.”

Erik looks down at the books at his feet. “Alone to read your books?”

“And do what I please,” Charles says, shrugging.

Erik could not check the twinge of irritation at his words.

“Such hardship you nobles must face, gossiping and dictating without leisure time.”

Charles’ face twists into anger.

“I don’t need your judgment. I want to you leave now,” he says with iron in his voice.

Thorny vines, rich green and razor sharp, erupt from the ground, surround him like a cage. Erik’s vision fractures like glass; darkens as vines blotted out the light.

 

* * *

 

Erik wakes, blinks up at the ceiling. He wonders if the dream had really been a dream.

But the sun is beginning to rise, and he needs to get to the smithy. He puts the thoughts aside for later and gets out of bed.

 

* * *

 

It is only later in the day, as he is working over the fire, that he remembers the pocketwatch resting on one of Charles' books.

 

* * *

 

That night, Erik looks at the watch once again, at its lace engravings and its glass face, at its lettering inside.

The watch is perhaps the same as in his dream, as the one Charles had.

Erik is not sure what that means, but he holds it in his hand as he goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sunlight is warm on his face, the ground soft but firm under his feet.

He opens his eyes, finds himself in the flower field again, though this time with the watch in hand. When he turns, Charles is there, bent over his books just as before.

Charles looks up at the sound of his footsteps and scowls at him.

"Go away," he says, but Erik holds out the watch.

"I think this is why I am here."

Charles' eyes widen as he stares at the watch. He looks back down at his piles of books. Erik looks too, and yes, he had remembered Charles' watch correctly.

Charles snatches up the one that is his, then looks back at the one in Erik's hand.

His confusion lasts for but seconds, melting into realization.

"You found the real watch," Charles says. "The one in the flower field."

He doesn’t look happy about it, but sits back down, eyes Erik with resignation.

“So it is yours then.”

Charles shakes his head. “It’s my father’s...the only thing I have from him.”

“You buried it in a field,” Erik points out.

“I did.” Charles looks away, bites his bottom lip.

His lips are so red, but Erik sees instead at the downcast look in his eyes, at the furrow in his brow, and sits down, just outside the ring of books.

“Why, if it’s something you should cherish? You have it in your dreams.”

Charles’ expression darkens, though he still avoids Erik’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“The watch brought me here, so I would like to know why,” Erik says carefully.

But not carefully enough, it seems, when Charles glares at him and repeats, “I do not want to talk about it.”

Just like before, vines shoot up from the ground, surrounding him. His vision fractures, then blackens.

 

* * *

 

Erik spends the day with thoughts circling back to Charles. Talking to him, he thinks, is like finding one’s way around a skittish horse.

Unfortunately for Erik, words do not lend themselves easily. He is no wordsmith; he speaks what he has in mind, blunt and rough around the edges, if he does choose to speak.

But Erik wants to keep trying, drawn to Charles in ways he cannot explain.

 

* * *

 

That night, Charles frowns at him when Erik arrives in the field.

“If you want to stay here, you are better off not talking.”

“There was a fire,” Erik says anyway. “I have nothing from my parents.”

Erik sees a new expression on Charles’ face, annoyance softening to sadness and understanding, but not pity. Fortunate, since Erik could not stand pity. But his heart aches at how Charles looks at him now.

“And that’s why it bothered you, yes?” Charles asks him.

“Partially.”

He studies Erik, then sighs and inclines his head.

“You may stay, for now,” Charles says, and cautiously, Erik sits down outside his ring of books.

They sit in silence, and when they talk, they first speak of not Charles, but Erik and his work as a smith.

 

* * *

 

Erik is not surprised when the dream ends with a misstep and thorns.

 

* * *

 

He continues trying, and with the pocketwatch, he wakes every night in the flower field, Charles waiting for him, not-quite-resignation on his face.

He learns, eventually, when it is best to keep his thoughts to himself, when to let Charles sit in silence and when to prompt him into speaking. He finds if he tells Charles about himself, Charles is more willing to reveal things in return.

 

* * *

 

Charles is not just any nobleman, but a prince. His father was king but is long dead. His mother is regent, Erik assumes, though Charles does not speak of his mother.

Charles also does not speak of friends, but mentions--fleetingly--courtiers and tutors. Instead he speaks of the flower field and castle gardens, of books and falcons.

So Erik still does not understand why Charles buried the watch in the field, when in their dreams he keeps the watch always in sight; why he is surrounded by people but keeps himself lonely, when the one thing he seems to wish for is a friend.

 

* * *

 

Erik likes watching Charles talk of the things he loves. Because he likes the way his eyes light up, the way he leans forward very so slightly, the way he waves his hands in the air.

Charles reads not of military strategy or battles, but of distant histories and fantasy. He loves flowers, his favourite the lilies that carpet this field. So he takes whatever chance he gets to take his books to the flower field, much the way Erik finds him when he dreams.

Charles also speaks of Sigurd, a falcon he has raised since its hatching; of riding out into the open and watching the bird soar and dive but always return to him. Falconry is such a rich man’s hobby, but Erik cannot resent it in Charles, not when he suspects the bird is Charles’ one friend.

 

* * *

 

Erik discovers that Charles is most beautiful when he is happy, when there is a smile on his lips and his passion spills out, unable to be fully contained under his skin. Because it's then that Charles simply _glows_.

He hates that he sees Charles more often sad than happy.

 

* * *

 

“...I can look into people’s minds,” Charles says one night, curls into himself. “That’s why you are here, possibly.”

It takes a moment for Erik to understand, but he does and asks, “So you can...hear what I am thinking?”

Charles shakes his head. “Not here; not in dreams, but in the waking world.”

Erik looks at him in wonder, and Charles seems to misunderstand.

He says, “I’m not a faery, or a witch, or...or a monster. I simply have this curse.”

“Curse?” Erik repeats, because how many times has he called his own power a curse?

Charles avoids his eyes, but says, “What else can it be? When the people around me resent or hate me, even my mother?”

He tells Erik of all those who have judged him. How Charles is ridiculed for any small mistake, and yet sneered at when he does well. It's natural, he says with a shrug, when it is said that faeries had blessed him as a babe. Charles has given up on trying to be please others, because perfect or not, the results are the same, painful and saddening.

And Erik wants to find all those silly, blind, _stupid_ fools and beat them to the ground, because how dare they find Charles wanting. Instead he reaches out and cups Charles' face between his hands, pulls him close and makes him look Erik in the eye.

He says, “Listen to me, Charles. You are nothing less than a wonder, and anyone who thinks otherwise are not worth your attention."

Charles tries to shake his head, to look away, but Erik hold him in place.

"Erik, no, I'm not. How can I be, when everything good about me, everything I can do, is because of faery magic?”

“No,” Erik insists. “Capability is nothing without knowledge; knowledge is nothing without application. Do you understand, Charles? Talent means _nothing_ if you do not cultivate it. And faery magic or no, you are _perfection_.”

Charles looks... _shattered_ , but Erik cannot say more, cannot fix it somehow, before he is knocked flat on his back, Charles’ body sprawled on top of his, Charles’ face pressed into the crook of his neck. He feels wetness on his skin, and all he can do is wrap his arms around Charles’ waist and hold him close.

 

* * *

 

The next night, Erik tells Charles of his own power, and the wonder lighting his face is exactly what Erik felt just the night before.

“I thought I was alone,” he says.

Charles gives him a small smile, sad yet hopeful, and takes his hand.

“I thought I was too, but it looks like we were both wrong.”

And Erik cannot resist it any longer. He pulls Charles forward, leans down and kisses him, soft and careful. When Charles does not pull away, when he kisses back instead, there is nothing holding Erik back from pulling him closer and never wanting to let him go.

 

* * *

 

Then comes the night Charles tells him...everything.

Erik listens as Charles tells him of the seven faeries who came to celebrate Charles’ birth; of the one faery who was not invited, and in her fury, cursed Charles to an early death by the prick of a spindle; of the seventh faery who changed the curse from death to sleep.

He tells Erik of his father, King Brian Xavier, who died when he was young, and of his mother the Queen, who became regent, who does not care for him the slightest.

Like Erik has suspected, Charles had instead been raised by servants and tutors and knights, had grown up so terribly alone.

And there were rumours as he had grown older, Charles says with hands clenched tight and knuckles white, rumours that Charles was not truly the king's son. For after all those years of trying and failing for a child, how could he have come to be?

Then, Charles reveals, there had been the courtesan, whose mind spoke of certainty, who told Charles of his mother’s affairs even before his birth--and of the single spindle the Queen kept in her rooms, tempted by the thought of just having him fall asleep and kept out of the way.

Charles tells Erik of how he could no longer see what was true and what was not; how he buried his father’s pocketwatch in the flower field, thinking himself undeserving; how he crept into his mother’s rooms one day, and to his despair, found a spindle.

“I couldn’t stand it any longer,” Charles confesses as Erik holds him, lets him rest his head on Erik’s shoulder. “I thought, it couldn’t possibly hurt more to be asleep than to be awake, living the way I was.

“I touched the spindle needle and fell asleep. I haven’t woken up since,” Charles says. “It was better here; nothing could hurt me.”

Erik tightens his hold on him. The pain in Charles’ voice is unbearable, and Erik wants to crush something, _anything_ , if he could not make everyone who has driven Charles to this...this _limbo_ , pay for what they have done.

“Then you came along.” Charles touches his cheek, smiles softly. “...I think it’s about time I stop hiding.”

“Then wake up,” Erik says, presses a kiss to his temple. “And I’ll find you; I’ll be there, Charles.”

 

* * *

 

It is not difficult for Erik to realise that Charles is the one the town calls Sleeping Beauty, and the thorns that used to force him out of Charles’ dreams are the thorns that block the castle from view.

Erik has no blade to cut through those vines, but that is not a concern, not when his powers could create one in an instant. Shortly after he wakes, he borrows a poker from the smithy and heads for the castle.

 

* * *

 

There is a small house built of stone by the woods near the castle. Erik passes it with not a second glance; getting to the castle, to _Charles_ , is of greater importance.

But a woman appears, steps into his path. Her hair is pale gold and sparkles in the sunlight. Her skin is as white as her clothes. She _glows_ , and Erik is no fool; this woman is a faery, is the very faery the townspeople blames for those who enter the castle and never return.

“Have you come to rescue the princess?” she says, her smile cold, too condescending to be beautiful.

There is something about how she says “princess” that makes his hackles rise.

“Would you give your life for someone who might not even be a princess? Haven’t you heard the stories?”

Erik has no patience for this, growls, “Charles is worth everything. Get out of my way.”

The faery blinks in surprise, then laughs. “My, I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

And just like that, Erik _knows_. He knows as sure as the sun rises and sets that she is the one who trapped Charles in sleep, who wanted to kill him.

It has been years since Erik has felt rage, the righteous rage that helped him kill Schmidt. But that rage is what rises up now, for Charles’ sake.

His gift wraps the poker around the faery’s throat, sends her crashing up against the house’s stone wall, choking for air.

He finds that iron does not burn her, not like stories say, but it does trap her, unable to set herself free.

“ _You’ve_ done this. Release him from your spell, faery!”

The faery struggles against the iron, but Erik tightens its hold around her throat until she is coughing.

“The spell,” she chokes out. “It was gone--a long time ago.”

“What?”

Erik loosens the iron enough for her to say, “That silly boy and his power. I may have placed the curse, but everything else is _his_ doing.”

Erik makes her explain: how she hid an enchanted spindle with the Queen’s room, how she bewitched a courtesan to tell Charles those lies. But the whole castle is asleep, not just Charles, she says, which should not have happened, and the thorns are not truly there, had appeared from air, not the ground. She blames it all on Charles.

And _oh_.

_Charles_ and his power to reach into people’s minds. _Charles_ , who put the whole castle to sleep. _Charles_ , who made the thorns appear from air. All the people who sought Sleeping Beauty failed to return, because Charles _did not wish to wake_.

It is not hard to imagine, not hard to believe--not when Erik recalls how Charles acted towards him two weeks before.

But before he can even think of how to reach, what to do with the faery, there is a screech, and Erik steps back as a bird swoops down between them, flies past and lands atop the castle battlement, heedless of the thorns.

It isn’t just any bird. It cannot be, not when it is a _falcon_. And Erik feels a strangeness in his head, a crackly warmth fading in and out.

_Charles_ , he thinks, and the falcon turns its head, looks at him and calls out again.

"If that's you, Charles, then you heard what this faery said!" Erik shouts to the falcon. "All those rumors were lies. The spindle isn't your mother's."

The bird tilts its head.

“You said you’d stop hiding, so stop these illusions.”

The warmth in his head steadies, no longer crackling in and out, and with a parting shriek, the falcon disappears just as Erik blinks. He watches, as the thorny vines melt away into the air, and the castle stands with bare stone walls crumbling from age.

Erik turns back to the faery. With a wave of his hand, the iron stretches and wraps around her, keeping her trapped in place. He ignores her shout of anger as he heads for the castle entrance.

 

* * *

 

The castle is a maze of hallways. Erik would have gotten impossibly lost, no idea where to find Charles, if not for the warmth in his head. He suspects it is Charles’ power, guiding him through the castle to where Charles sleeps.

 

* * *

 

There are bodies lying on the castle floor, some wearing the clothes of courtiers and servants, while others armour, swords still clutched in their hands. These are the people who fell asleep when Charles did; these are the people who have tried to find the fabled Sleeping Beauty; these people have all died, because Charles had not wanted to be woken.

It means Charles has blood on his hands, but that hardly matters to Erik. Not when _he_ is the one Charles has let in.

 

* * *

 

He finds Charles in the queen’s room, sprawled across the bed. Erik gathers him into his arms, calls his name. Charles does not stir, but Erik still feels that warm pull in his head. So he leans down, presses his lips to Charles’, light and chaste, not unlike when they first shared a kiss.

“Wake up, Charles,” he murmurs.

Charles wakes slowly, blinking away the cobwebs of sleep. His eyes are even bluer than in their dreams.

“Erik, thank you, and...I’m sorry,” Charles says, and smiles, sad and soft. Then he closes his eyes and sighs, chest falling as he exhales.

His breath does not return, his chest still.

 

* * *

 

It takes Erik a while to realise it, to think past the confusion and disbelief that freeze his mind.

He thinks of the bodies littering the castle, cold and lifeless. He should have realised it; if they are dead, then Charles--

_No one can stay asleep so long and live when they wake._

Throughout the castle, metal crashes to the ground, crumples in on itself.

What he felt when his parents died is nothing compared to now, not when he wants to bring the castle to the ground, and wants the world to burn with his rage.

But he struggles for control--pulls in his anger, blots out his devastation. He cannot accept this. He cannot.

He lifts Charles off the bed, carries him out of the castle.

 

* * *

 

The faery is still outside, trapped in iron. He can tell she knows what has happened from the unsurprised look on her face.

“ _Fix_ this,” he demands, holding Charles close.

“What do you take me for? I am a faery, not a god,” the faery says, scowling. “I cannot revive the dead.”

But she can do something, he finds, when he threatens to crush her bones with iron.

She claims she can hold Charles’ soul to this world, because Charles has only just died, but only for thirty days. She claims she can preserve his body for that time, keep it alive and sleeping, though without a soul. In exchange, she wishes to be set free unharmed.

Erik loosens the iron, keeps it from touching her skin, allowing her magic but refusing her freedom until she does as she claims. He watches warily as she closes her eyes and turns translucent white, like a gem, sunlight shining through her.

What feels like ages pass before she re-opens her eyes, turn back to normal.

“It is done," she announces. "Take his body back into the castle, and the magic will take care of the rest. Then go to the northern mountains. Find the witch Raven and bring her here," she says. "Only she can bind body to soul."

"How do I know you've done what you said?"

"Faeries do not-- _cannot_ \--go back on their word," she hisses. "I have done what I said I would."

Erik looks at her closely, but he has no way to tell if a faery is being truthful.

"If you have not done as you promised, _I_ promise that I will find you and I will kill you," he says.

He waits until she fully understands this, then releases her, allowing the iron trapping her to fall away.

She eyes him warily, then sniffs and walks away. He blinks, and she is gone, nothing but dust motes in her place.

 

* * *

 

Erik sits down by the bed. Charles’ hand is warm in his, and his chest rises and falls in sleep, just as when he had found him. Though try as he might, Erik could not wake him.

He would have despaired, but there is a familiar warmth inside his head--Charles, possibly. If he could feel Charles' power, then surely Charles' soul has been saved, just as the faery promised.

Erik clings to this hope. The alternative is not an option.

 

* * *

 

The sun is beginning to set when he finally leaves the castle, presses a kiss to Charles' brow and returns to town.

But for a set of horseshoes, he is done with the blacksmith's jobs, so he does not wait to leave. He tells the smith of his departure, collects his pay, and gathers his things.

As he eats a quick supper, he checks with the townspeople the faery's words, if the witch Raven can truly be found in the mountains. Then he leaves, following the road that will lead him north.

 

* * *

 

He goes to sleep that night under the stars in a flower field. It is not Charles’ field, filled with white tulips instead of lilies, but the tightness in his chest loosens, just a little.

 

* * *

 

Erik stands in a lily field when he opens his eyes. He blinks, blue sky and white flowers blinding. Then he is being embraced from behind, arms wrapping around his waist and a warm body pressing up against his back.

The fear roiling inside him fades to nothing.

“Charles,” he breathes out, spins around so he can see him, well and whole.

“Erik.” Charles smiles up at him, bright and warm, and pulls him into another embrace.

Erik wraps his arms around him tight, presses his face into Charles’ hair.

“Thank you, Erik,” Charles says eventually.

“For what?” He pulls away just enough to look at Charles.

“Everything.” Charles smiles, then stands on his toes and kisses him, soft and sweet.

“I don’t need a thank you,” Erik says when they separate. He puts his hands on Charles’ hips, holds him close. “All I want--all I need is you by my side.”

“Then it’s best you find Lady Raven soon, is it not?”

“I will find her, Charles, and save you,” Erik swears, looks right into those impossibly blue eyes.

Charles smiles widely, just the way Erik loves to see, before saying, “I know you will. But whenever you’re dreaming, stay here with me.”

As if there is any doubt Erik would.

Erik sits on the ground, pulling Charles down with him.

In the morning, when he wakes, he will have to continue his trek to the mountains, but here, now, for as long as he dreams, he can sit among flowers, savouring the way Charles curls up against his side, warm and solid and _alive_.


End file.
